


scars like flowers

by dreamyshadows



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24248197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamyshadows/pseuds/dreamyshadows
Summary: always aching for forgiveness, tracing scars on boy-man skin.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19
Collections: Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon





	scars like flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver) in the [SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before,  
> scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt. ~Richard Siken, poet

He’s looking at himself in the mirror, alien eyes staring back into a face he hasn’t been able to recognize since he left home all those years ago. A hand rises, touches the contours of the body Sam knows is his own, but feels like its been left behind in every dorm, every motel, every ransacked shack they stayed in as kids. There are scars that bloom on his skin like flowers arranged in a bouquet of pain; red roses for each wound delivered by a demon, tulips for each ghost, white lilies for each ghoul. Even with an angel by his side, there are some scars that have gone too deep -- some scars that have managed to etch themselves so stunningly onto his soul. He thinks of those as vines, ever growing and ever pervading, winding so carefully around his heart. How fitting that they be the color of Dean’s eyes.

Sam walks away from the mirror, blinking gently against the flash of green that blinds him for a quick moment. Today is one of the days where those vines are tight and constricting, heart begging the mind to be gentle with the punishment. _Is this what Eve felt like, with the serpent wrapped around her?_ This pain streaked pleasure? He whimpers against the onslaught, kneels down beside the bed, and bows his head to take a breath. The sinews in his arms slither and coil, and a gentle hiss emerges from somewhere within his mind as he feels the dying embers of impurity rake their way up his soul. He thinks of those green eyes and that soft smile, willing those vines to quieten. They do, and Sam breathes.

How does it feel to be so clean and impure all at once? So scarred and pristine in the same body? _It feels like this_ ; to wish for death at each moment but to resent it so viscerally when it arrives -- willing only to go if not alone, only if surrounded by brother. Sam smiles and traces each scar with fingers broken and rebuilt over the years, longing for forgiveness and redemption. Each scar is a memory, taking him to places known and unknown, to soft touches and gritty moans, to tears bleeding into old pillows -- _where do they lead? A voice questions_ ; this mystery Sam has yet to understand.

A gentle wind traces a recent scar, roving over the puckered skin, and Sam smiles into the darkness. The vines nestle closer to his heart, finally growing flowers, peaceful and redeemed at last.


End file.
